


Feeling Good

by Lafaiette



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Tailor, Blow Jobs, Comfort, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Sewing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1316908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafaiette/pseuds/Lafaiette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter goes to the shop of the talented tailor Wade Wilson, who makes masterpieces and beautiful clothes with his scarred hands and his big, crazy grin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling Good

The shop was a _mess_ and it smelled of beer, food and leather. Peter walked on his tip-toes to avoid the measuring tapes, pieces of cloth and needles on the floor, stepping into the center of the room. 

"Hello?" he called; the door of the sewing lab was ajar, sounds and light came from it, but Peter waited patiently, hearing someone getting up from a chair and turning off a TV.

"I’m coming!"

A tall, muscled man entered the room, cleaning his hands on a dirty cloth. His face split into a grin when he saw Peter.

The young man tensed up a bit. He hadn’t expected… that. The tailor’s look was rather unsettling: bad, deep scars ran across his face, arms and neck; they probably covered his whole body, continuing under the clothes like red paths. He was bald and his eyes looked kinda feverish under the white light and Peter fought the urge to ask him if he was feeling well.

Then he frowned. Everybody had told him Wilson’s creations were works of art. He followed his customers’ instructions, adding his own personal twist here and there, which was never out of place, but on the contrary quite original and fitting. He used good materials, treated his tools with an exaggerated care, his prices weren’t that high and his services were very satisfying. Many people required them and among them there was Peter’s aunt, who had convinced him to go to the shop and try them himself.

The clothes and suits in the shop windows were really good, but Peter started to doubt that the man in front of him was actually Wade Wilson, the famous tailor of New York. He looked weird, with those scars and his grin; he was also… staring at him?

“Uh…”

“What can I do for you, sweetums?”

Oh God, not the nicknames. Embarrassment and surprise hit Peter like a sack of bricks and he stammered, a blush spreading over his face: “I… I’d like to have this repaired.” He shook the plastic bag he had in one of his hands. “Are you mister Wilson?”

“The one and only!” The scarred man approached him, throwing the cloth in a corner, not caring where it landed, and his smile grew. “I have never seen you here before, pretty eyes. First time?”

“Yeah… my aunt shops here, but…”

“Wonderful! We are gonna be best buddies, I can already feel it.” He winked and patted Peter’s shoulder, making him flinch, then asked, his grin now a toothy, excited smile: “Name?”

“Peter. Peter Parker.” the young man frowned again, not understanding why his name was so important. For all he know he might never come back there, so…

“Oh, so you are Miss May’s nephew!” the tailor giggled, a high, happy sound that was in complete contrast with his appearance. “I should have known. She _always_ talks about you, you know? My nephew this, my nephew that… It’s really cute.”

“Oh. Umh, thank you, I guess.”

The scarred man didn’t let his shoulder go, on the contrary his grip on it became stronger and he was smiling so cheerfully it was almost creepy.

“Did you see the last dress I made her? Damn, I nailed that request, those puffy sleeves were a masterpiece.”

This time Peter cracked a smile, because that dress was really pretty and it suited his aunt. He had been surprised when she first wore it and that said a lot about that piece of clothing, because Peter wasn’t absolutely a “fashion” kind of guy.

“Yes, it was awesome. She loves it.” he admitted and Wilson’s damaged face was bright like the sun outside. For a moment the young man wondered how he got those terrible wounds, but it was way too rude to ask, so he looked down into the bag and changed topic: “Uh… she told me I could come to you for this.”

“Of course, baby boy - speaking of which, you really look like a baby, how old are you anyway? -, let me see what you’ve got.”

Peter tried to ignore his burning cheeks and Wilson’s fast blabbering and took out a beautiful, brown sweater from the bag, showing the other man the huge problem on the right elbow.

“I don’t know how it happened, last thing I knew was that there was this hole and…” he sighed, guilt written all over his smooth face. “It… it was my uncle’s. My aunt told me you are the best tailor in the city, please tell me you can repair it.”

“That was so nice of her.” Wilson’s smile suddenly turned normal, gentle. “Don’t worry, Petey, it’s nothing. Give me two seconds, okay?”

He disappeared into the room he was before Peter’s arrival and the young man stayed there, waiting for him, looking around the small shop. There were some chairs around a table with belts and vests on it and he decided to rest his legs, sitting down with a sigh. He heard the tailor humming a familiar tone, talking to himself once in a while; for the second time, he wondered if that man was really that good as his aunt and everybody else said he was. He wasn’t going to ruin Uncle Ben’s sweater even more, was he?

Some minutes filled by anxiety passed, the tune changed, then stopped and a chair creaked.

“You still there, Petey?”

“Oh? Yeah, of course!” Peter got up as Wilson stepped out of the sewing lab, holding the brown sweater. It was in perfect conditions, the hole gone, some loose threads on the collar tightened again, the buttons on the sleeves shiny and bright.

Peter took it reverentially, any doubt in his mind kicked in the ass by Wilson’s talent.

“It’s… it’s perfect.”

“Of course it is, duh!” the scarred man looked almost offended. “What did you think? That I couldn’t repair a little shit like that?”

“No, no! It’s just…” Peter smiled, a true, honest smile. “Thank you so much. This sweater means a lot to me and…” He shook his head, unable of finding the right words, and took out his wallet.

“How much is it? I want to give you an extra, it’s a work too well done.”

“Shut up, you dork.” the other man laughed, pushing the wallet on Peter’s chest. “I don’t want anything for something like that. I’m not that poor.” He wiggled his hairless eyebrows. “Of course, if you want to pay in a completely different way, there’s no problem…”

Peter’s shyness came back in full force, reducing him to a stammering, red-faced man with a brown sweater hold closer to the heart.

“I was kidding, Petey.” Wilson chuckled. “You are too young for me. I have standards and I don’t want to ruin your innocent, candid soul.”

The young man snorted, a weird sound that contained mixed feelings of embarrassment and amusement; he put the sweater back in the plastic bag and extended his hand.

“I owe you my thanks, then.”

“My, aren’t you formal!” Wilson wrapped his fingers around his palm and Peter looked down at their joined hands for few seconds, surprised by the feeling of the scars on his skin. It wasn’t unpleasant as he had thought, they were just… rough, protruding, but not disgusting.

_Maybe a fire?_ Peter wondered, but his thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the tailor cleared his throat and let his hand go, stepping back. He looked bashful now, a weird sight considered how he had acted until now.

“Sorry.” he muttered looking away. “Well, umh… see you soon?” The small hint of a grin reappeared on his lips, shifting the uneven skin. “You have a nice body, did anyone ever tell you that? You would rock in one of my suits.”

“Oh. I… I will think about it.” Peter returned the smile, feeling sorry for that strange man with big, scarred hands who could create such beautiful things, wacky, a bit creepy, but funny at the same time. He looked around the store for the millionth time, imitated by Wilson, who started listing all the good qualities of his clothes and Peter’s body.

“Look at these pants! Velvet with silk stripes, your booty would look _amazing_ , sweetie. And this blue and red shirt is tight enough to show your chest… which is really good by the way, are you a model?”

“N-No.” Peter snorted seeing Wilson’s grin. “Listen, I don’t have time to try anything now, so I’ll come back another day. Okay?” He opened the door and the bell on it trilled. The tailor pouted and showed him a beautiful leather jacket.

“Not even two seconds to try this one? I’ll do a special price for you.” He fluttered his eyes, but ended up looking more like a hairless Bambi on steroids.

“Next time.” Peter smiled again, he wasn’t even annoyed anymore by the man’s behavior. “I promise.”

“Fine.” Wilson pouted again. “I believe you because you have sweet, gentle eyes and I know your aunt’s number, so I can always harass her to know where you are.”

“Please don’t.”

The scarred tailor waved happily at him as he left the store and Peter thought that the idea of coming back soon to try a new pair of jeans or a new shirt wasn’t so bad. He really needed to put some novelty into his style, plus all the clothes he owned were starting to lose buttons or their colours to fade.

_‘Okay.’_ Peter looked into the plastic bag with a huge, content smile. _‘Coming back to buy something can’t hurt, right?’_

 

\- - -

 

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, sweetums, your round ass distracted me and…”

“Don’t look at my butt!” Peter shrieked, glaring at the scarred man who was currently taking measurements of his waist to sew him a nice hoodie for the incoming winter.

Wilson had been _ecstatic_ when Peter had visited his shop for the second time. The young man didn’t know whether the tailor was like that only with him or not; he treated him like a friend, like they had known each other for years and his advances were so bold and brave, Peter really didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop.

Wilson had insisted to make something specifically for him, a commission at half the usual price.  

“Tell me what you want! I can make _everything_. You want a green tuxedo? No problem. A pair of good, old pink shorts to skate around the city? Who am I to judge?”

Peter had to repeat his request more and more times, because Wilson was tragically stubborn and didn’t want to make something too simple and classic for him. He wanted to use precious materials and fabrics, so expensive that the cut price of the commission would have given him no profit in the end.

Thankfully Peter had managed to convince him that a hoodie was all what he wanted and cotton and wool for the inside were perfect materials.

“No silk?” Wilson had asked with disappointed surprise in his hoarse voice.

“No silk, thank you.”

“Velvet?”

“No.”

“Cashmere?”

“Mr. Wilson, please…”

The tailor had smiled.

“Wade will be fine, Petey. No need to be so formal with me.”

Now Peter was regretting it. The tailor had told him to take off all his clothes (“I don’t care if you want a hoodie, I need your measurements for future purposes!”) and he was now standing in a corner of the room wearing only his boxers and red cheeks.

Wade touched him. They weren’t simple touches, casual brushes of fingers on his skin while doing something else; they were _deliberate_ caresses - lasting few milliseconds, but still! - and most of the time Peter didn’t see them coming. The other man was behind him, confusing him with his endless stream of words, his questions, his presence that seemed to fill the whole small shop.

“Ops!” he giggled when he stung Peter with the eleventh needle (yes, he had counted them!).

“ _God…!_ Wade, stop that!” the young man turned around to face him, one hand covering his poor left buttock. “It’s not funny, it’s the _opposite_ of funny, so please stop or I’m going to tell my aunt to never come back here.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” the scarred tailor whined. They have been there just for one hour, but Peter already knew how childish and petulant that big-ass guy could be.

“It was an accident, I didn’t mean to sting you again.”

“The _eleventh_ accident?”

Wade raised his brows, looking pleasantly surprised.

“You counted them?”

“Yes!” Peter sighed, rolling his eyes. “And I really don’t understand why I have to stand here naked. I just want a hoodie, there’s no need to take my hips and waist measurements.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, pretty eyes.” Wade grumbled, whipping his ass with a measurement tape and making him cry out in pain and surprise. “Come on, raise your arms.”

In that moment Peter realized that he was childish too.

“No.”

And he pouted.

This time the surprise written on Wade’s face was akin to horror and indignation.

“Excuse you?”

“I’ll do as you say and let you do your job _only_ if you promise me you’ll do it with professionalism and in all seriousness.” He even crossed his arms to let the message go through Wade’s thick skull.

The tailor closed his hanging-open mouth, seeming lost into thought. Then he scowled, huffed, like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away, and snarled: “Fine! No more touches.”

“ _Hah!_ ” Peter exclaimed and the sound would have been triumphant if he hadn’t been so angry and annoyed. “So they _were_ intentional!” He stepped down the base where Wade took his measurements, but the other man pushed him on it again.

“No, no, no! I’ll be a super good boy, I swear!” He grabbed Peter’s hands and brought them to his chest; it was the second time they touched like that and Peter remembered what had happened yesterday, when the tailor had thought he was disgusted by the contact.

So, despite his lingering annoyance, he let Wade hold his hands without problems. He hummed, convinced by his words, and nodded. Just then the tailor realized what he had done and jumped back with a shy smile.

“Shit, sorry for that.” He rubbed his bald head, looking down, and Peter sighed. His aunt always told him he was too kind sometimes.

“Do I have to raise them like this?” he asked and Wade turned back to his normal, boisterous self. This time, though, he kept his hands far from Peter’s skin, didn’t play with the needles, used the measurement tape in the right way; he talked more, discovered that he and Peter had common interests (“Finally, another fan of _Star Wars_! Do you want to see the Chewbacca belt I made?”), asked him about Aunt May and his job.

“For the last time, I’m not a model.” Peter chuckled as Wade finally wrote down all the measurements. “I’m a college student and a freelance photographer.”

“You take pretty pictures of yourself, Petey?” the tailor asked with a mischievous grin, that turned into a fit of giggles when the young man blushed and stammered some nonsense. “Take it easy, baby boy, I’m joking. You can dress yourself…” he glanced at the lean body with a longing sigh. “… if you want, that’s it.”

“Finally a good idea!” Peter’s words were pronounced with a smile, though, and Wade joked with him, elbowing his side as he put his clothes back on. Then they sat around the table in the same room, discussing the pattern on the hoodie.

Wade had a talent for drawing too; his proportions were correct, he sketched the various angles of the hoodie to show Peter what he had in mind in few seconds. For a moment his eyes lost that feverish, a bit crazy look, he relaxed, his words were slower and his smile calm, content. He looked at peace, in his personal, happy place and Peter found himself relaxing as well. He looked more at the scarred man than at his sketches, staring at his chapped, dry lips and big fingers which hold the pencil with dexterity.

Then he asked, softly, almost a whisper: “How did it happen?”

And despite the low voice, Wade heard and stopped abruptly, eyes still fixated on the paper.

The only noises in the shop were now the tick-tack of the clock on the wall and the muffled rumble of the cars outside.

“A bad disease.” Wade scratched a cheek, scribbling absentmindedly on the paper. “It’s no contagious, don’t worry. It’s not even a skin disease, just…” he shrugged. “I was little and I don’t remember much about it. I just know they gave me the wrong medicines and my already bad situation worsened. The sores I had on my body became scars and they didn’t go away.”

Peter gulped seeing his resigned look; he wasn’t angry, just used to that situation and his shrug confirmed it.

“Shit happens, right?” Wade let out a weak laugh. “It happened pretty early to me, so I didn’t have a normal childhood or life. I managed to be good in something though.” The shadow of his usual cheerful, wacky grin reappeared on his lips. “I tried to sign in for a model career, but they told me I didn’t have the right body shape.” He faked a sniff and Peter laughed softly despite the melancholy in the air.

“I’m sorry.” he said and took a scarred hand that wasn’t holding the pencil in his own, making the tailor jump on his seat. “I didn’t mean to sadden you.” The smile that followed must have been pretty sincere and beautiful, because Wade babbled something, blushing like he never did before, and looked at everything that wasn’t Peter. The young man laughed again, a crystalline, clear sound, and squeezed the marred palm before letting it go.

“So!” he said hoping to break the strange silence in the room. “Do you think you can put some web patterns on that hoodie? I love spiders.”

Wade still looked rather bewildered by what just happened - he wasn’t sure what that was though. And Peter had no clue either; he had the slight impression that something had changed in the room, but didn’t know what.

“Spiders, huh?” Wade started drawing something. “You really are a weird guy, Petey.”

“Hey, you are the one who stung my ass with a needle and stared at my crotch the whole time.”

The other man sighed dreamily and Peter nudged him on the side, moving his arm and the pencil, still pressed on the paper, made a scratchy line on the sketch, eliciting a shriek from Wade.

 

\- - -

 

Peter came back every day to the shop, not only to see the progress on the hoodie, but also to spend time with Wade. The first times there had been customers, so he had just waved from the windows and gone home. Then Wade had called him - at home, because apparently Aunt May had given him their number -, whining because they hadn’t talked and spent time together; Peter had asked him if he could visit him after the closing time and the tailor’s answer had been a glorious laugher and the full description of what they were going to do.

First they discussed about the hoodie; Wade always showed it to him, asking if he wanted corrections or changes. Everything was perfect, though, it was really what Peter had imagined and Wade’s talent was undeniable once again.

Sometimes he kept working on the commission in the sewing lab with Peter, who started talking as much as the scarred tailor, telling him about his life, hobbies, his aunt, asking questions (which never brought up again the scars’ topic). Wade was more focused when he worked, but another of his talents included the ability to talk without problems even when he was busy; he never missed a joke, never hesitated, never left Peter hanging.

The young man learned more about him; he had been in the army, then had countless different jobs; finally he had opened that shop, decided to make his dream come true.

“Why do you like sewing and making clothes so much?”

“It’s great creating something, you know?” Wade had answered tightening the elastic of the hood, tongue between his teeth. “Something that people will enjoy, something that will keep them warm or make them feel good.” His eyes had sparkled with that sad light again, the same Peter had seen before. “I don’t know how that feels like. But sometimes… sometimes I think I do when I see the happy look on my customers’ face.”

He had shook his head and snorted, bending forward as if to hide his expression from Peter.

“That’s… that’s kind of stupid, sorry. I’m getting soft thanks to you.”

Peter had touched his hand, making him stop and raise his head; then he had smiled and said: “I think that’s beautiful. It means you really love your work and your creations.” He had laughed, a bit shy. “I feel like that with my photos.”

And Wade had smiled too, the first big, real smile Peter had seen on his face and it had made him feel light and at peace like few days before.

 

The next week the hoodie was ready.

It was _perfect_ and Peter wore it with slowness and carefulness, at loss for words. Wade kept blabbering next to him, saying he could change everything that he wanted even though Peter had already paid for it, that he wasn’t so sure about the pattern, maybe he should modify that? Oh, was it warm enough? There was a lot of wool inside, but…

“Wade.” Peter grinned at him. “It’s amazing. It’s the most beautiful hoodie I’ve ever owned in my life.”

The other man visibly relaxed.

“That’s… that’s cool. I’m glad to hear that.”

He lost every trace of calm, though, when Peter started taking off his jeans.

“… What are you doing, Petey? Not that I mind, on the contrary I’m feeling rather tight right now…”

Peter was used to Wade’s advances by now and laughed while he stepped on the base in a corner of the shop, near a mirror.

“I want a pair of new pants.” he explained, his smile not fading. “Can you take the measurements for it?”

“But I already took them for your waist.”

“What about my legs then?”

The tailor licked his lips, disappeared into the sewing lab and came back two seconds later with all the necessary.

“They are pretty long.” he said placing the tape on Peter’s thigh until the other end was touching ankle. “Damn, Peter, you would earn so much as a model! Listen to me and tell your stupid boss to go fuck himself!”

“I could work for you.” the young man said and he wasn’t sounding exactly ironic; more like ‘I’m telling a joke, but I’m also serious as hell’.

Wade noticed that tone and raised his eyes to look at him quizzically.

“What?”

“Yes, I could be _your_ model! Your living mannequin to help you take measurements and show your customers how your clothes would look on a human being.”

Wade snorted, scribbling down the length of his legs and passing on their width.

“You would have to wear skirts and dresses too.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be too bad, would it?”

Peter’s gentle smile had become a smartass grin and the scarred tailor made a low, confused, intrigued sound.

“I guess not.” he agreed returning the grin.

This time Peter let him play with his hands and the needle. At first the touches were hesitant, Wade was asking for permission; then, when Peter’s silence and smile gave it to him, he pressed his hands fully on his legs, thighs, back, even butt. He played with the hem of his boxers, pressed the cold needle flat on his skin. And never stopped talking, not even once.

“Raise your arms, Petey. I need to take new measurements.”

Peter did and Wade went near him, more than necessary, pretending to be reading the tape. The young man pressed against him and whispered in his ear: “There is something else I’d like you to measure.”

Wade blushed, his breath hitched in his throat and he didn’t look at Peter, who continued: “And I want to measure something too.”

“That’s… that’s not a good idea.”

“Yes, it is.” Peter’s voice changed, became sweeter and reassuring, and he wrapped his arms around the big, muscled waist. One hand went under the simple shirt Wade was wearing, making him gasp.

“It is, Wade.”

The tailor finally looked at him, at his brown eyes and smile, and let the tape go, pressing his lips on Peter’s, kissing him with hunger and urgency.

When the young man’s hands stroked the skin beneath his shirt, he moaned, groping the soft ass and hard crotch, earning himself a happy whimper. The shop was closed, the windows covered, they were alone and didn’t give a fuck about anything else.

Peter laughed into Wade’s mouth when he pulled down his boxers; he kicked them away and wrapped his legs around the bigger waist, pressing his dick on the other man’s stomach.

“Take off your shirt.” Peter moaned; Wade shook his head, trying to interrupt him playing with his tongue, but the boy pulled away and pleaded him with both his voice and eyes: “Wade, please, I want to feel you!”

“No.”

“I already touched your scars before!”

“The… the hands are different.”

Peter groaned and was about to insist again, his fingers tugging at the collar of Wade’s shirt; the older man interrupted him with another kiss, lifting him from his ass, fingers digging into it, grinding their hips together.

Then Peter pushed him on the floor, making sure not to hurt him, but also to straddle him and keep him down.

“W-What are you doing, Petey?”

“Shh…” Peter kissed him, then went lower to unfasten his belt and pull the old jeans and boxers down.

_‘Even if he’s a tailor, he wears such simple things.’_ he thought fondly, then placed his lips on the hard manhood pulsing under his face. It was scarred like the rest of Wade’s body and Peter took extreme care in licking and sucking it.

Wade was stifling his moans without much success, buckling into Peter’s mouth, biting his lips and staring at him with large, shocked eyes.

Peter returned the stare, slowing down on purpose, tasting the bittersweet precome, fondling the balls, lapping the ragged skin; Wade called his name, not used to that contact, to that attention, to that love and care.

He came hot and deep into Peter’s mouth, head falling back on the floor as he breathed in and out, his vision blurred, almost blinded by the pleasure.

“Peter…”

The young man was on him again, grinding against his stomach, moaning and breathing heavily into his ear, hands touching his skin again; Wade started stroking his erection, smiling when the other man gasped and repeated his name more times, until he came, face hidden in the scarred neck.

“Oh, shit…” Peter muttered. “The hoodie!”

Wade laughed and gently pushed him to study the damage on it.

“I’ll wash it and it will be perfect again.” he said, then he took in the whole sight. Peter in the hoodie he had made for him, Peter with _his_ cum on his beautiful, sweet face, straddling him with red cheeks and his shy smile.

He smiled, too, and Peter rested down at his side, holding his hand.

“Did you like it?”

Wade’s smile grew bigger.

“Shit, Peter, that was the most awesome thing ever.” He stroked a smooth, blushing cheek. “Thank you.”

Peter chuckled softly, resting his head on the big shoulder to better look at the bright eyes.

“I… I never saw you smiling so much before.” He squeezed gently the hand, rubbing circles on the scars. “You look so happy, Wade.”

Wade pulled him closer, kissing his forehead and hairline.

“I _am_ happy, Peter.”

The young man hugged him, forgetting the hoodie for a moment, just thinking about those strong arms around his body and the smile on the scarred face.

“Me too!” he exclaimed, excitement and joy oozing from his pores, so much that Wade couldn’t help but laugh with him. “I want to take a picture of us together later! And you have to try my aunt’s chocolate cake, come eat at my house, like, tomorrow. No, now! What about now? Oh, can I help you make some new clothes? For yourself, this time, because you have such a good body and…”

“Peter, did my cum make you drunk?” Wade snorted and the young man giggled; the look on his face was the best one Wade had ever seen in his life and he soon felt the joy of that smile sprouting inside himself, enveloping him in warmth.

Yes, for the first time in his life he was feeling good.


End file.
